The Allen House; Or, Twenty Years Ago and Now

“Pardon me, Mr. Dewey,” said I, “but I cannot hear such language used towards a gentleman of irreproachable character. Mr. Wallingford is not entitled to the epithet you give; and I warn you, not to repeat that, or anything like it, in my presence.”

“You warn me!”

A gleam shot towards me from his evil eyes.

“Ralph! silence!” The Judge spoke sternly.

“Yes, in all soberness, I warn you,” said I, fixing my gaze upon him, and holding his eyes until they fell to the floor. “Mr. Wallingford is not the man to permit any one to use language about him, such as you have indulged in. If you make use of another opprobrious epithet, I will communicate the fact to him immediately. And let me say, that, unless a different temper is manifested, I must terminate this interview at once.”

Judge Bigelow drew his nephew aside, and talked for some time with him, in a low, earnest tone; after which the latter apologized, though with an ill grace, for the intemperance of his manner—alleging that an old wound smarted whenever Wallingford crossed his path.

The result of this confidential talk was not as favorable on my mind as Judge Bigelow had hoped to make it. I pitied his embarrassment; but the conduct of Dewey confirmed my previous view of the case, which was to require a transfer of the property specified by Mr. Wallingford, or press for an immediate foreclosure of the mill investments. There was, I felt satisfied, hazard in delay.

When our next formal meeting took place, Dewey was again present. It was in my thought to suggest that he was not a party covered by the business to be considered, when Mr. Wallingford said, in his mild, grave way—

“I believe this is a meeting of the Executors under the two wills of Captain Allen.”

The meaning of his remark could not be misunderstood, for he glanced towards Mr. Dewey as he spoke. That individual, however, did not choose to regard himself as referred to, and made no sign. But Mr. Wallingford was not the man to let a deliberate purpose fall to the ground. He had come with the intention of objecting to Dewey’s presence at the conference, and to insist upon his retiring, as a preliminary to business.

No one replying to Mr. Wallingford’s remark, he said, further—

“I do not mean to be uncourteous, but I must suggest the propriety of Mr. Dewey’s withdrawal.”

“I am an interested party,” said Dewey, with ill-concealed anger.

“Ah! I was not before aware of this,” replied Wallingford, and he looked inquiringly towards the Judge and Squire. They showed an uneasy perplexity of manner, but did not respond.

“In what way are you interested?” queried Mr. Wallingford.

“I am one of the guardians to the heir under an existing will.”

“A will that the decision of our court has rendered null and void,” was promptly answered. “We have not met to consider questions in which Leon Garcia, or his representative, has any concern. Our business refers to other matters.”

Dewey moved uneasily, and seemed struggling to keep down his rising displeasure. But he did not, manifest any intention to withdraw.

“Had we not better proceed to business?” suggested Squire Floyd.

“Not while Mr. Dewey remains,” said I, firmly taking the side of Mr. Wallingford.

“Somebody will repent himself of this!” exclaimed the ill-governed man, passionately, starting to his feet, and striding from the office.

“I don’t understand this individual’s conduct,” remarked Wallingford, in a serious way. “Why has he presumed to intermeddle in our business? It has a bad look.”

He knit his brows closely, and put on a stern aspect, very unusual to him.

“You probably forget,” said Judge Bigelow, “that you have proposed a change of ownership in property now occupied by him?”

“That was simply to give you more latitude in settling up the estate in your hands. I said we were willing to accept that property at a fair valuation, thinking it would offer a desirable mode of liquidation. It is for you to say yea or nay to us; not Ralph Dewey. If you cannot gain his consent to the transfer, there is an end of that proposal.”

I really commiserated the embarrassment shown by the Judge and Squire. They seemed to be in a maze, without perceiving the right way of extrication. Dewey appeared to have over them some mysterious influence, above which they had not power to rise.

“If Ralph will not consent—”

“Ralph must consent!” exclaimed Squire Floyd, with a sudden energy of manner, and the exhibition of a degree of will not shown before. “Ralph must consent! The mode of adjustment proposed by Mr. Wallingford is the one easiest for us to accomplish, and I shall insist on Dewey’s giving up his opposition. There is a vast deal more of pride than principle involved in his objection.”

The Squire was breaking away from his fetters.

“It is plain,” added Squire Floyd, “that his partners wish that property to go in preference to any other. And it must go.”

This was a style of remark quite unexpected on our part; and only added firmness to our purpose. The interview was not prolonged in discussion. We merely reaffirmed our ultimatum, and gave one week for the two men to decide in what manner to close their trust.

CHAPTER XXVII

The decision was as I expected it to be; and the old property came back into the family. There were few hearts in S–, that did not beat with pleasure, when it was known that Mr. Wallingford and his lovely wife were to pass from Ivy Cottage to the stately Allen House.

I think the strife between Mr. Dewey and the old executors was severe, and that he yielded only when he saw that they were immovable. An open rupture with Squire Floyd was a consequence of his persistent determination to have the Allen property transferred; and after the settlement of this business, they held no personal communication with each other.

The change in Mr. Dewey’s appearance, after it became a settled thing that he must remove from the splendid mansion he had occupied for years, was remarkable. He lost the impressive swagger that always said, “I am the first man in S–;” and presented the appearance of one who had suffered some great misfortune, without growing better under the discipline. He did not meet you with the free, open, better-than-you look that previously characterized him, but with a half sidelong falling of the eyes, in which there was, to me, something very sinister.

As far as our observation went, Mr. Wallingford put on no new phase of character. There was about him the same quiet, thoughtful dignity of manner which had always commanded involuntary respect. He showed no unseemly haste in dispossessing Mr. Dewey of his elegant home. Two months after the title deeds had passed, I called in at Ivy Cottage, now one of the sweetest, little places in S–, for Constance, who had been passing the evening there. Not in any home, through all the region round, into which it was my privilege to enter, was there radiant, like a warm, enticing atmosphere that swelled your lungs with a new vitality, and gave all your pulses a freer beat, such pure love—maternal and conjugal—as pervaded this sanctuary of the heart. I say maternal, as well as conjugal, for two dear babes had brought into this home attendant angels from the higher heaven.

A soft astral lamp threw its mellow rays about the room. Mr. Wallingford had a book open in his hand, from which he had been reading aloud to his wife and Constance. He closed the volume as I entered, and rising, took my hand, saying, with even more than his usual cordiality—

“Now our circle is complete.”

“Excuse me from rising, Doctor,” said Mrs. Wallingford, a smile of welcome giving increased beauty to her countenance, as she offered the hand that was free—the other held her babe, just three months old, tenderly to her bosom.

“What have you been reading?” I asked, as I seated myself, and glanced towards the volume which Mr. Wallingford had closed and laid upon the table.

“A memorable relation of the Swedish Seer,” he replied, smiling.

“Touching marriage in heaven,” said I, smiling in return.

“Or, to speak more truly,” he replied, “the union of two souls in heaven, into an eternal oneness. Yes, that was the subject, and it always interests me deeply. Our life here is but a span, and our brief union shadowed by care, pain, sickness, and the never-dying fear of parting. The sky of our being is not unclouded long. And therefore I cannot believe that the blessedness of married love dies forever at the end of this struggle to come into perfect form and beauty. No, Doctor; the end is not here. And so Blanche and I turn often with an eager delight to these relations, feeling, as we read, that they are not mere pictures of fancy, but heavenly verities. They teach us that if we would be united in the next world, we must become purified in this. That selfish love, which is of the person must give place to a love for spiritual qualities. That we must grow in the likeness and image of God, if we would make one angel in His heavenly kingdom.”

His eyes rested upon Blanche, as he closed the sentence, with a look full of love; and she, as if she knew that the glance was coming, turned and received it into her heart.

I did not question the faith that carried them over the bounds of time, and gave them delicious foreshadowings of the blessedness beyond. As I looked at them, and marked how they seemed to grow daily into a oneness of spirit, could I doubt that there was for them an eternal union? No, no. Such doubts would have been false to the instincts of my own soul, and false to the instincts of every conscious being made to love and be loved.

“The laying aside of this earthly investiture,” said Wallingford, resuming, “the passage from mortal to immortal life, cannot change our spirits, but only give to all their powers a freer and more perfect development. Love is not a quality of the body, but of the spirit, and will remain in full force, after the body is cast off like the shell of a chrysalis. Still existing, it will seek its object. And shall it seek forever and not find? God forbid! No! The love I bear my wife is not, I trust, all of the earth, earthy; but instinct with a heavenly perpetuity. And when we sleep the sleep of death, it will be in the confident assurance of a speedy and more perfect conjunction of our lives. On a subject of such deep concern, we are dissatisfied with the vague and conjectural; and this is why the record of things seen and heard in the spiritual world by Swedenborg—especially in what relates to marriages in heaven—has for us such an absorbing interest.”

“Are you satisfied with the evidence?” I ventured to inquire, seeing him so confident.

“Yes.”

He answered quietly, and with an assured manner.

“How do you reach a conclusion as to the truth of these things?”